The rain in South London is different from the rain in Manchester. In Moss Side, the rain feels like it's trying to wash you away. Down here, it just feels like it's waiting for you to make a mistake.
It was Sunday, September 10th. Matchday four. The international break was over, the media circus had returned to Beckenham, and the reality of the domestic grind was back upon us. Brighton and Hove Albion were the visitors to Selhurst Park.
The M23 derby: a bitter, historic rivalry that the television companies loved to hype. But for me, the narrative had nothing to do with the rivalry. It had to do with a ghost from my past.
I stood in the tunnel an hour before kick-off, the familiar smell of Deep Heat and damp grass filling my lungs. The Brighton players were filing off their team bus, a line of tracksuited professionals looking focused and tense. And then, I saw him.
Jamal "JJ" Johnson.
